


CHEKHOV'S KNIFE

by saberteeth



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Blood, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Ableism, F/M, Fear Play, Knifeplay, Object Insertion, Predator/Prey, Scarification, fear kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29474265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saberteeth/pseuds/saberteeth
Summary: “You have been running from me all week,” he growls in your ear. With his neck so close to you, his scent darts up your nostrils, sweat and dirt. It shouldn’t be pleasing, but it is, because it is Ivar. “Like a deer. But I have caught you.”“What do you do with deer that you catch?” you ask him, somehow finding your voice buried deep beneath the frightening intensity racking through you.“Skin them,” he answers promptly. “Remove my arrows, skin them, gut them, clean them out. I go as deep inside of them as I wish, to take everything I need. Eventually, they will become my meal, a fur to keep me warm, a bone I may carve.”Ivar/Reader and gratuitous knifeplay
Relationships: Ivar (Vikings)/Reader, Ivar (Vikings)/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	CHEKHOV'S KNIFE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [witchoil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchoil/gifts).



> for a friends-only private fic exchange. i had a fucking blast filling this prompt for witchoil, and getting into vikings and their boy!! i only watched 4b and a bit of 5a, so forgive any continuity errors
> 
>  **warning** for use of the word cripple
> 
> enjoy!

It is a sunny day when the younger princes of Kattegat arrive in Vestfold.

You’ve heard of these men, and their army. Who hasn’t? But you’ve never seen them in action, or seen them at all. And they are  _ handsome, _ Ivar more so than his brother. And there’s no mistaking which is Ivar, after all. Only one of them has binding straps around his legs, carries an iron crutch, and a face that longs for justice.

Although both brothers have suffered the loss of their mother, their father, Hvitserk carries himself so much lighter, and it is not because he has two working legs.

That is the first time that Ivar intrigues you.

\--

It’s a few days later when you catch him sparring Hvitserk that you voice your question. Signe has spotted you watching, tilting your head as you watch his leathers ripple over his well-defined shoulders, his hair whip over his neck. He sits on a stump, but this has not hindered him in the slightest. Good-looking, good with a sword. And yet, you have not seen one woman make a pass at him all week. It seems like a missed opportunity, and you resolve to remedy that the next chance you get.

“Ivar is skilled, hm? Are you surprised?”

A shake of your head.

“Not surprised at his skill, no. He is a son of Ragnar, after all.”

“True,” Signe agrees, notching an arrow. “Then why the look of trouble on your face?”

“I don’t understand why he doesn’t have women crawling all over him,” you admit, looking away. “He’s strong, handsome, talented, knows his way around weapons – I don’t know what more you could ask for.”

Hilda snorts.

“You could ask for someone who could please a woman.”

Signe suppresses a giggle, but you just stare back at Hilda questioningly.

“This isn’t just an asinine rumor about a youngest son?”

She shrugs.

“I guess you could take him to bed and find out, couldn’t you?” Signe lets out a sound, but a look from you has her closing her mouth. “Can’t move his legs, can’t move his cock, right? Can’t give you pleasure, and there’s no point, talented in the field or not. I need someone who is talented with my cunt.”

She smirks, and moves her thick hair over her shoulder before picking her bow back up and moving to aim. You look back at Signe, but she just raises her eyebrows in question.

“There you have it.”

But you shake your head. Your companions are limited by their imaginations – and you know how to spot something special when you see it. A good shieldmaiden picks a worthy target.

“A cock is not the only thing that can please a woman, Signe,” you say. “And if you believe so, then I suspect you and your husband have quite the boring time in the bedroom.”

Her jaw falls open at your retort, and she prepares to follow up, hand flexing toward her axe, but Ivar chooses to walk by at this moment, Hvitserk slapping him on his back as they finish training. Sweat drops down his brow, making him look slightly battle-worn, and you find your tongue working its way over your teeth. You draw in a deep breath.

“Ivar,” you call out, and his head whirls your way. Hvitserk nudges him approvingly, waggling his eyebrows, but Ivar just shrugs him off. “Welcome to Vestfold. Please let me know if you need any hospitality.”

Hvitserk lets out a wolf whistle, and you color slightly. Too forward, perhaps? But what do you have to lose? In the North, you could be dead tomorrow. You expect a retort, but Ivar pauses for a moment, looking down toward the ground questioningly, as if he is trying to work out whether or not you pose a threat.

Signe laughs, and the heat rushes up your cheeks even more, hot in the sunshine. Just when you are about to follow up, to try and ease the situation, Ivar calls back at you.

“Do you say that to every cripple you meet?”

He laughs at himself, then, turning toward you with a smile. You turn to look away, feeling that an apology would be useless. But before you do, you take one last look at his smile. Beneath it, there is still the look of a tactician, as if in your words there was a puzzle unable to be solved.

\--

The fires of the forge are hot but a welcome comfort this season, and you find the blacksmith to be an easy conversationalist as you exchange words back and forth, you describing the arrows you'd like made, and him nodding in a deep understanding as one so skilled in their craft does. It’s a good place to avoid Ivar; knives and axes on his hip, that sword he carries, his war chariot: he’s well-stocked.

And it’s nice to watch him work, relaxing. His hands move in a pattern, and it’s easy to let your mind drift as he pours, quenches, cools, and repeats.

Your mind settles into a nice haze soon after, hot fires on a muddy day are enough to put anyone to sleep. So you only distantly register him telling you that he’s stepping out for a moment, nodding absently as you keep your eyes on the bright orange of the hot iron. It's funny, you think. Orange is the only word you know to describe it, but it doesn't seem suitable, not when the color nearly moves. The table is worn and hard when you prop your elbow on it, letting your cheek smush underneath your hand, trying to think of suitable phrases for the molten metal.

It’s because of this, you reason later, when you’ve had a moment to catch your breath, that you don’t hear the dragging feet and the tell-tale thump of a crutch behind you. It’s because of this that you are taken completely by surprise when suddenly, there is a blade at your throat, the metal cool amidst the burning of the smithy.

You lift your head off of your hand immediately, tensing and standing still. Your whole stomach lurches – you’re a capable warrior, you haven’t been taken by surprise like this in some time, and you can hear the beating of your heart in your ears, the thumps beating a near-irregular rhythm in your fear. Two thumps, a beat, three.

"Do not move," comes a voice. The breath in your ear should be hot, but it's cooler than the forge, and it makes you shudder. The knife in your throat makes you more aware of your bodily movements in a way that you aren't normally, not outside of battle, and your bare throat presses gently against the blade as you swallow.

"I wasn't going to," you whisper, and you hate that it  _ is _ a whisper, but you've never had a knife at your throat before. It is a vulnerable position: if the knife-wielder presses a little harder, if you turn your head too fast, it could prove lethal. You wish your traitorous heart would shut up, betraying your emotions to your would-be attacker.

"Do you know what I do to people who wrong me?" The voice continues, still hot-cold in your ears. It is not the low rumble of some of the older men, rather it is the self-assured lilt of a man who is sure of himself in a way so many will never reach.

This is unmistakably Ivar.

Closing your eyes, you suck a quick breath in through your nose, trying to ignore the stinging of the smoke, of the pain in your lip, which, you come to a late realization, your front tooth is digging into, deep enough to leave a dent that won't fade for several minutes.

Ivar could kill you. This isn't a hypothetical of a misjudged movement anymore: this is a fact; you do not need to have seen him on the battlefield to know it. His arrows don't miss, his axes slice exactly where they mean to. If Ivar wishes to end your life in this moment, he will.

With this realization comes an unmistakable moment of clarity. You should be scared – and you are, of course you are, but there's something exhilarating underneath the dark canvas of fear. If you must go, it will be by this warrior's hand. It could be quick, it could be painful, but regardless, it will be terrifying. When you dare to exhale again, your breath shakes like the skin of a beaten drum.

"I've wronged you?" you dare to ask, although you obviously know of what he speaks. The words tumble out before you intend for them too, your tongue chasing the high that your chest feels. Daring to ask – daring to provoke – a thrill runs through you that you think you've only ever felt when entering battle. Not even then, maybe; anything could happen in a battle. And you're capable: there have been close calls, but you've never been truly afraid. Here, however, the threat is much more certain. You don't have your weapons, your armor, your shield to hide behind. You are laid bare for Ivar, and shamefully, you feel a rush of warmth racing toward your cunt as you think it. Laid bare like a virgin, like the mother the Saxons worship.

Ivar does not answer immediately. In your peripheral vision, you think that you spot his dirt-stained fingernails, but more than anything, you feel the pads of his fingertips on your shoulder. You refuse to move: the knife hasn't, after all. But slowly, he turns you to face him, dragging the knife down your body to rest at your chest. Puncture to the lung. Dig into the heart. Slice down the sternum: so many possibilities, all of them terrifying.

"You were asking people about me – I know what they say."

That he's impotent. That he cannot feel pleasure, only pain. You want to protest that you don’t care, that your interest was genuine. He does not seem to have ever received this, but there is something inside of you telling you that words will not be what convinces him. He has to feel it for himself. You shake your head, and the knife digs in harder, deep enough to draw blood. The pain should spur you to act but it's a grounding pleasure instead. You let your eyes travel downward for the barest hint of a moment, just to watch red trickle down your front, to settle into the fabric and splinter out between threads. Straight down the center of your chest; if you hadn't been wearing a shirt it would have continued down to your belly button, your waist, and then – deeper, to join where you already grow wet. Sick as it is, there is no denying it.

Slowly, you chance bringing his hand to the front of your skirt, letting him grasp through the thin fabric, to feel what rests there.

He hasn't managed to scare you off at all. Only to scare you – and pull you in closer.

\--

Perhaps revealing to Ivar that you were interested wasn’t the smartest idea. You’re walking from the market back to your home one day, and you are suddenly backed against a wall, slamming into it so hard that the foundation shakes.

Taken by total surprise, you slap your hand to your chest to let yourself catch your breath, but breathing feels stifling under the imposing creature that is Ivar the Boneless.

“What are you doing!?” you ask, which, perhaps was another bad idea. Or a very good one. You’ve been chasing the feeling from the smithy ever since, touching yourself at night, choking yourself with your own hand, running your own knife across your lips, hoping.

The real thing is so much better. You gulp, looking into his eyes. The ferociousness with which he looks at you shouldn’t be real, but it is, somehow, as is the arm planted next to your head.

Ivar leans very close to you, and splits his mouth open, showing all of his teeth, like a wolf waiting to strike.

You nearly expect a slew of insults, or an invite to battle to the death to come out, with a grin like that. As if chasing the same high that you have been since your first meeting.

But all that comes out is:

“What is your name?”

Once again, you're surprised by the tone and cadence of his voice. Higher than you’d expect with a face like that, melody like a song.

You answer him, trying your best to keep your voice steady, despite the way your heart still pounds.

In battle, you may expect to be ambushed, but in the walls of your own home? You reason with yourself, because you feel ridiculous, but something about this is so  _ fun:  _ Ivar has taken an interest in you.

“I like it,” he says, before pulling a sword from his waist. “Do you like my sword?”

Dimly, you nod, aware that the wrong answer could put you on the other side of that blade.

“I got it from the Christian,” he tells you, leaning in closer, his crutch digging a dent into the ground with the intensity in which he stands before you. “I took it off him before I took him prisoner.”

“I – yes, I’ve heard of your success against the Saxons,” you tell him. Of course you have. You have reason to feel the way you do.

“Good,” he says. “Then I do not need to tell you.”

You move your head back and forth, and he nods.

“I like this sword,” he says. “I have not had a chance to use it yet, though. See that you do not give me a reason to.”

And then he stalks off, crutch staking a hold in the ground, one leg dragging, then the other.

Some people may underestimate him because of this. To you, all it shows is that he is a man who will not stop until he gets what he wants.

Your heart is still beating fast even after he has disappeared down the road and around the corner.

\--

It’s been a long day, the kind where even your bones feel tired when you sit down to eat. You’re hard-pressed to even lift your spoon, instead wanting to slump over onto the table and rest your eyes. Just for a moment.

“Still running from me?” a voice asks, hands placing themselves on the table.

“Fuck!” you cry, looking up, directly into the steely-eyed gaze of Ivar the Boneless.

Again, the feeling of your heart leaping to your throat overtakes you, and you swallow strongly, trying to steady yourself.

Your imagination does not agree. In the corner of your mind, you see Ivar giving you a scar that reflects the one on his cheek, of him slicing into your heart, devouring you whole. Even sitting down, you are aware of how much bigger than you he is. Taller than you, yes, but you mean in presence. In intimidation.

There is just something about the way he looks at you that scares the shit out of you. Like he is planning his next kill, instead of racking his brain to make conversation.

“Vestfold,” he says, taking a knife out of his belt and sticking it into the table with a practiced hand. Just how many times has he had to plunge a blade down like that?

“Vestfold,” you agree.

“What do you think of the whales that you kill?” he asks, without pretense, twisting the knife. “Do you enjoy it?”

“Well,” you say, choosing your words carefully. His gaze makes you feel like you are a child, and your mother is disciplining you. “I don’t do much of the fishing.”

“But you enjoy the kill.”

“Of course,” you shrug. “They provide much for us.”

“But they didn’t do anything wrong.”

Why does this feel like a test? You breathe in.

“They are necessary. It is the nature of life.”

“I understand,” he says, nodding.

“Do you?”

“I enjoy whale meat,” he says, smiling, before reaching over to stab yours with his throwing knife. He picks it up, and then lifts it to his lips, red and wet and teeth tearing into the flesh.

\--

Ivar has not sought you out in two days, and you suppose you should be happy about that. But a part of you longs to see him again. For his attention, for the thrill that rushes through you whenever he chooses you to be on the end of his threats.

It’s an indescribable feeling, but a welcome one. And yet, not one that you would choose to reveal to your companions – something you want to keep close to the heart, for yourself.

But keeping it inside of yourself makes you feel like you’re going to burst out of your skin, so you head over to the training grounds, hoping to take out your frustrations out on some unfortunate deer carcasses.

The process of notching and shooting an arrow is a welcome one in its familiarity and ease. Your muscles haven’t pulled, ached, since you were but a child.

Your shots hit their marks easily, and it’s kind of nice to do this alone, with nobody around.

You line up your next shot, backing up to add a challenge, placing your elbow at the right position, releasing the bow string, and –

_ THWACK. _

Another arrow hits yours out of the air, and you whip your head around to find Ivar grinning at you from the next training ground over, his brother Hvitserk laughing. Ivar isn’t laughing, though.

He’s looking at you as if he is daring you to say something, to do something. To spring the trap, to succumb to the cage. It’s silly, you think, but if it had been Hvitserk who had done the same thing to you, you would have laughed, perhaps tried the same trick back at him.

There is simply something about Ivar that scares the living shit out of you. And the feeling of it is addicting. The sensation that runs through you, hot blood, sparks on skin; it feels much the same as reaching a climax. A high that can’t be replicated, and you want more.

As if to give it to you, Ivar notches another arrow, never breaking eye contact with you, releasing, and hitting the bullseye.

Gods, but you feel as if you are going to squirm out of your clothes. How long can you continue this game of cat and mouse?

\--

Not long, apparently.

"Do not move," he says, a memory of the first words he ever spoke to you, and you begin to bolt up in bed before you are stopped. All it takes is a palm to your shoulder, and you cease your movement, the jolt of terror and pleasure that has become synonymous with Ivar’s voice stopping you like you are a marionette. You chance a look up, though. In the moonlight, Ivar's eyes are bright and clear: he is a hunter, and you are his prey.

You are no stranger to the tactics of hunting. In Vestfold, fishing and whaling is much more common than hunting game. But the concept is the same. One may track their prey: follow their prints, ambush them when they are down, waiting for the exact moment to strike. Adversely, one may lure their prey. Assess its habits, set the trap, let them follow their nose, and soon enough, they are right under your blade.

Poor you: Ivar has managed to do both.

...Or not so poor you, you think distantly, as one of those throwing knives appears in his hand. He twirls it around on his finger once, twice, and you let your eyes follow it, if to keep them away from his if anything. The way you know he is smiling, pleased at having caught the animal in his trap, might overstimulate you before anything has even started.

"To what do I owe this visit?" you ask, and your voice sounds distant in your ears.

“I am tired of playing games,” he states simply, matter-of-factly. “You know why I have come to you.”

This is a man who will be king. In that moment, you do not doubt his ability in the slightest to take Kattegat, a man driven by rightful revenge. But in this moment, Harald, Kattegat’s queen, the war room, none of these are on his mind.

You are his sole target. A shiver runs down your spine. To think that a man so cunning has nothing else to concentrate on but how to conquer  _ you. _

“Yes,” you answer simply, as if compelled. There is a way about him, that somehow this man, this  _ cripple, _ fills the entire room. It does not matter if his manhood works at all. He is already filling you up. Your heart beats staccato in your chest, and you begin to scramble backward, but your back hits the wall before you can move.

Ivar hauls himself forward. How strong his arms must be, to carry his whole body like that, the dead weight of his legs, and what he carries inside of him. You are no stranger to the burdens of being a Viking: pride for your kingdom. Pride for your people. The drive to conquer. To please your gods, to do as Odin intended.

But within Ivar, there is a deeper cavern, with many secrets. He is the youngest cripple son of Ragnar Lothbrok, and you cannot begin to guess what lies in the mouth of the cave. You do not know these secrets, but they are there in the set of his mouth, the depth in his eyes, and in the way he grins at you as he hauls himself on top of your legs.

For all intents and purposes, this should be a moment of vulnerability. You should have power over him; he is looking up at you, and ostensibly, you have the ability to get up and run away.

You  _ should. _ But you are pinned under his stare like it is iron. And suddenly, one of his throwing knives appears in his hand, and bile rises in your throat.

“You are wearing too much,” he says, and there it is, that matter-of-fact tone. Dumbly, you nod. What else can you do? With all of his attention fixed on you, one wrong move could spell the sure end for you. But at the very same time, there is a voice in your head whispering.  _ You want this, though, _ it says.  _ Do not act as if he is forcing you. You have been pulling him to you all week. _

And you have. You are no stranger to Ivar’s advances, but with distractions. In the market, where people mill about. Outside of your home, where your family dwells within. On the training grounds, while Hvitserk watches, an expression you cannot read on his face.

All this time, climbing up the mountain, and now you have reached its peak. And so, you nod.

“Stay still,” he commands again, but you don’t need this command. Ivar could pin you to the floor with a look, more secure than any physical restraint that he could use.

He rests the knife on the tip of your forehead, and you concentrate on the same point on his face. At night, his hair is not done up in its intricate braids, strips of leather nestled between them. Instead it falls by the sides of his face, a curtain for the act of his expressions.

Slowly, he drags the knife down, the bridge of your nose, the cupid’s bow of your lips, your chin, your neck. A facsimile of war paint, as is appropriate, you suppose. You are about to enter battle. At any time, the action could start, and you do not remember being this scared in your life, as you try your hardest to keep still, calm. But you can’t – the intensity radiates through your body like an orgasm, and your clothes are still on.

He looks up at you, then, from where his gaze had been resting. He hadn’t been looking at your eyes, or even at your tits, your cunt.

No. He had been looking at your neck.

And then, without warning, as if a viper is striking, the knife moves downward, tearing your nightclothes in two, straight down the grain of the threads, opening you as if he is gutting a fish. And for some reason, that is all you can think:  _ a fish, he is going to eat me like I am his kill. _

Gods, it fills you up, and your head grows hazy. You have no idea what his plans are, and perhaps that is what is so delicious about it, you think distantly. Something is cold against your thighs: your own wetness, leaking already.

“You are…” he starts. “You want this.”

A statement, not a question, but the lilt at the end, climbing just a bit higher, betrays his surprise. As if he hadn’t let himself believe that your run and catch routine of the last week hadn’t been more than just a game.

“I have said this to you before: I know what you have heard about me.”

The knife is still on your stomach. One wrong answer, and your guts could spill.

“I have heard that you are as the gods made you,” you answer, voice raspy in your terror. Swallowing heavily, you urge yourself to speak up. “As I know this, I know that there are other ways to please a woman.”

He stares at you for a long moment, the knife dragging lower, to your cunt. The lines that it leaves in its wake are light, and fade quickly. You find yourself wishing they would stay.

He seems to notice this, as well, nodding to himself, twirling the knife around his deft fingers. How you would like those to fill you up as deep as his fear.

“I know exactly who I am,” he says. And that is all the response he is going to give you, it seems, as he abandons the knife, and leans closer, your body easily laying back down so that his mouth can close over yours.

He runs his teeth over your lips before biting down like a hungry man, a starving man that you know a Prince like him has never been. But perhaps he has been starved in other ways. A thrill runs down your spine that Ivar has chosen  _ you _ to have his fill, disturbing and delicious all at once. A tilt of your head, an arch of your back, and you are kissing,  _ kissing, _ in a way that you have not before.

“You have been running from me all week,” he growls in your ear. With his neck so close to you, his scent darts up your nostrils, sweat and dirt. It shouldn’t be pleasing, but it is, because it is Ivar. “Like a deer. But I have caught you.”

“What do you do with deer that you catch?” you ask him, somehow finding your voice buried deep beneath the frightening intensity racking through you.

“Skin them,” he answers promptly. “Remove my arrows, skin them, gut them, clean them out. I go as deep inside of them as I wish, to take everything I need. Eventually, they will become my meal, a fur to keep me warm, a bone I may carve.”

“And if the deer does not die when you first strike it?”

“Ah, then a reminder that I am the predator, and it: my prey.”

You do not answer with words, instead, you shimmy out of your torn nightclothes, rendering yourself completely naked, and he returns the favor for his top half. You run your eyes appraisingly over his body, trying to memorize the lines of his tattoo as quickly as you can. Swooping lines over each shoulder, culminating in the middle. A necklace rests between them. He glances at the same spot on your body, but your tattoos are on your back. The front is clean for another set of markings. As if he is thinking the same thought, he draws the knife along them, this time, deep enough to break the skin.

Despite the way your muscles clench with fear, the pain doesn’t even strike you as such. The shiver that runs through you feels as good as your fingers against yourself in the dead of night.

“What do you think, eh?” he asks, dragging the knife in a circle. You can’t look, but when you close your eyes, you can feel the shapes. One line, straight up toward your throat, and one down toward your tits. Another: toward each shoulder. Two more, crossing over. Short flicks in bursts of three. Eight semi-circles.

He has carved fear directly into your heart.

“A new tattoo.” you murmur, blood mixing with sweat and pooling between your chest, and he thumbs at it absentmindedly, rubbing it up toward your nipples. Heat races through you, a contradiction to the cold that comes with terror.

“Ivar the artist,” he grins, then laughs to himself. “Now you are ready.”

_ Ready. _ Yes. These are the words you’ve been fucking waiting to hear, finally caught in his trap. He twirls the knife around his fingers, and suddenly two more appear. The slide of three over your skin sounds fantastically overstimulating, but you can’t help but wonder…

Your body responds to the thought as enthusiastically as your brain does, nipples hardening and cheeks flushing. Your cunt does too, folds growing dark as your pupils.

Ivar notices, of course he does. His gaze is intense when the conversation is as light as air, but now? He can see straight through you to the roots below the earth. The scar on his cheek glints with the moonlight, and you reach up to stroke it, but when he looks back at you, your hand falls back to your stomach.

“What are you thinking of?”

You open your mouth. “I…” You close it. Ivar already knows, by the look on his face. But he shakes his head, and leans very close. The earring in his lobe brushes across your cheek.

“Tell me. What are you thinking of?”

“The knives.”

“A fine tool. I had them forged just for me, you know? They are shaped to my hand. They do whatever I like them to. They never miss.”

How has he already made your body feel like it’s on fire with a simple phrase? A scream should release itself from your throat, you do not think you’ve ever been this afraid in your life. But you want this, gods you want this. Want to scream in pleasure for him, want to be opened by the exact knives that he has killed with.

“I wouldn’t expect them to.”

He tilts his head, looking at you appraisingly. The moon has crossed behind a cloud, and half of his face is in shadow, but his eyes still show.

“Good. I will fill you up in all of the ways others have said I cannot.”

Rolling himself over with a groan, he pushes his pants down his legs as far as they’ll go, to the top of his braces. His cock sits between his legs, flaccid, and you reach out curiously. He does not stop you, just smirks, and lets you run a hand down it, lets you cup his balls. It doesn’t grow, doesn’t twitch, and when you glance back at him, his mouth is open with a ready retort.

You don’t say anything. You want to take him, exactly as he is.

And with little fanfare, his head dips, spitting inside of you, before his tongue is dragging itself from thigh to cunt, up your clit, and you shake. It’s as if the foreplay began back with that first meeting in the forge; your cunt already feels like it’s been teased for a week. But you let him open you up anyway, squirming with anticipation and nervousness. You’ve had things inside you before: your fingers, a cock. But never an instrument that could destroy you such as this. Whether you mean Ivar or the knives, you’re unsure.

“You’re ready,” he announces, and you whine with the loss of his tongue, but that is quickly replaced with cold metal against your pussy, and you let out a noise, loud in the silence of night. Ivar laughs, delighted.

“Yes,” you agree. “I have been since you first saw me.”

_ Please, fuck me, _ you want to say, but it feels so wrong to command him when his presence is in control of the entire room, and soon, an entire kingdom. But your eyes connect with his, and he knows.

The first knife’s handle slips inside of you, and you can’t help but gasp. It feels so unlike anything else you’ve ever felt. So cold, too deep, and stretching you in a way no fingers or cock ever could. The knives are not shaped like an axe, or a sword; they are wide and flat, and curved. Wider than any cock, and your hole stretches around them, feeling as if it is about to tear in a way that feels so  _ good. _

These knives are an extension of Ivar’s body as much as any cock is to a man, and as he thrusts in and out, you know that you are going to be taken in a way that you have never known.

“You are doing so well. Time for another,” he praises, slipping the second knife in slowly, moving himself back on his stomach so that he can watch the way you are open for him. His face betrays so much of him, you think, in this moment.

Until now, he has worn a battle helmet, but as he watches you, his lids slide half-closed, his mouth slack. Those enthusiastic eyelashes.

The friction of the knives against your insides is so unique, you think you can feel it in your stomach, your throat. You clench around them, unsure if it is voluntary or involuntary, stars behind your eyelids when you close them. Ivar grunts as he moves his hand, back, forth, back, forth, as if readying a piece of meat.

The thought makes you wetter than it should, and you arch up, sweat from your back sticking to the pad beneath you.

“One more?” he says, asks, it’s all beginning to blend together. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but you give it in a moan as he twists the knives, and eases the third and final one inside of you. Your toes curl – too much, it’s  _ too much, _ and your feet feel cold like they’re at the hottest part of a fire, your legs feel as if there is a sack of sand inside of them. And your  _ cunt – _ wet, gods, so wet, and shuddering in its pleasure.

When you open your eyes again, and chance a look at Ivar, he is donning a smile; proud and hungry. He is so beautiful, he has surely been blessed by Freya.

You think back to what you had mentioned to your companions, it seems so long ago. How does he not have women all over him? He is greater than any war prize, mightier than any sword, and more fulfilling than anything you have ever known.

Again, you marvel at the slick pooling in your cunt – sweat? Piss, from your fear? Or –

Craning your neck, you see the way in which Ivar has chosen to grip the knives. His knuckles are white and he palms the blade as if it is a blunt thing, blood dripping down his forearm like raindrops against a roof; down your thighs, down the folds of your snatch.

He catches you looking, and without breaking gaze once, he bends down to lick a slow pass up your cunt.

You cry out, and surely, you will finish if he does so again, terror racking down your spine.

“Can you come?” you whisper, arm reaching out to brush against his chest, tracing his tattoo. “I’m close.”

He looks into your eyes one more time, and then back down at the space between your thighs. The red is nearly black in the night, glimmering as if to pull him into its depths.

Keeping his stare fixed on the blood, he dips his thumb into it, and traces it down your pussy, then across, and then into his own mouth.

He pushes the knife in deeper – and all at once, your hips move, and you’re coming, hot pleasure, deep and cold, the spasm of your cunt pulling the knives in as if they are greedy. Ivar does not remove his hand, lets them slice deeper, and then he grunts, his soft cock spilling into the pool of blood, and your wetness, and your sweat.

His breaths come heavy, as do yours, and you slowly bring up your gaze to meet his, but he is looking away.

The clouds have given way to the moon again. On Ivar’s face is an unmistakable glint of wetness. It can’t be mistaken for sweat at all.

\--

He does not look back at you for a long moment. When he does, he looks as ragged and worn as you feel. It makes you want to comfort him, so you do, placing a hand on his cheek, forcing him in closer, until your foreheads touch.

He looks lost, you think. You’ve been searching for what’s beneath his hardened armor all this time, and he’s been searching for a home.

You think that you could be that for him, if he were to allow this to continue.

You press your forehead deeper to him, wanting to ground him, not wanting to break the moment with words, and slowly, you gather him into your arms, let him press his head into your shoulder, let him run his hands down your back, and you lay the both of you back down. Your mind is still hazy when he pulls away.

“Hey,” he says, and you blink up at him.

“Ivar –” you start, unsure what you’re even going to say. Thank him? That seems too trite.

“You are all dirty,” he interrupts you. “Let me clean you.”

You can hardly say no, especially not as he leans down, lips to thigh as if in a precious kiss, and then to the blood smeared there, lapping, licking your wounds. To a warrior such as him, the taste of iron is a welcome one.

He continues, dragging his tongue over your belly button, making you shudder, to the blood above your tits from the wounds that will scar, leaving the mark on you forever. Up your throat, until his face rests over yours, a mismatched reflection.

He brings his fingers to your lips, slipping three of them in and prompting you to open your mouth.

With a gleeful look in his eyes, he opens his mouth, and lets the blood-spit that’s pooled there slowly drop from his lips to yours, the saliva dripping down his chin like a dog. You lift yourself to lick at it, and his hand threads into the back of your hair, dipping you back down, trapping you in another kiss.

A trap you are glad to be found in.

\--

He does not leave afterward, as you may have expected. Instead, he lays beside you, absentmindedly threading fingers through your hair as you pillow your head on his chest, breathing in tandem.

Others may see him as a monster, but perhaps that is because they don’t enjoy being scared. To you, he is a beautiful thing.

“I would like to do this again,” he admits, voice lighting up the dark.

You breathe in, breathe out.

“Then I will have to follow you to Kattegat, won’t I?”

His fingers still in your hair, a tug. You can’t help the noise that escapes your throat.

“Yes, you will.”


End file.
